


Shock

by qwanderer



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Arguing, M/M, amputee!Phil, deaf!Clint, get-together, spoilers for Agents of SHIELD season 1, spoilers for TWS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:59:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwanderer/pseuds/qwanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson takes a hit, and the consequences are like nothing he's had to face before. And that's saying something. But he is fine.</p><p>Phil Coulson is always fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shock

The thing about shock was, you couldn't really tell how badly you were injured. 

Up against Loki, on the Helicarrier, Phil'd only been pretty sure he was about to die because he'd seen the damn scepter sticking out of his chest. 

Right about where his heart should have been. 

He would have laughed, but he was a little busy saving the world to do the proper reenactment of the significant scene from Star Trek: The Next Generation (season 6, episode 15, "Tapestry"). And here and now, they really didn't have reliable artificial hearts. So Phil Coulson was pretty sure he was dead. 

"It's okay," he told Nick. And it was true. 

It never once occurred to Phil that the bastard would resort to Project Tahiti. 

* * *

The thing about shock was.... 

What was the thing about shock? 

He'd done this before. Phil had done this before. The shock thing. But it had been different then. All clarity and frozen moments and a gun in his arms. Everything had seemed simple. 

Well, this time was different. Everything was noisy and dusty and spinning, and he couldn't seem to find his arms. Or, you know, most of him. But for some reason his arms were important. 

He couldn't find them, though, so he lay back, coughed and shuddered, waited for things to make sense again. 

* * *

He woke up in the medical room at the Playground base. There was pain. There was definitely pain. 

If the injuries had been minor, he'd be on the Bus. But, if they'd been life-treatening or required major surgery, he'd be in an actual hospital facility. Always assuming he hadn't been out for days, or something. But it didn't feel like it'd been that long. Not this time. 

Jemma rushed to his side. "Director!" she cried with a gentle smile. "You're awake. How are you feeling?" Trip ambled to his side more slowly, and let her take the lead, since they had more history. 

"Significantly less dead than the last time I woke up after fighting a war," he decided. "What's the damage?" 

Her smile nearly dropped off her face. "Phil," she said. "Both your arms were in the path of the blast from the shaped charge you were attempting to defuse. With time, you should regain full use of your left hand. Your right...." She sighed. "I'm afraid there wasn't very much left there to save." 

Phil just nodded. "Okay. What can we do about that?" 

Jemma frowned. "You do understand that your arm, it's... well, it's been amputated a few inches below the elbow. Yes?" 

He breathed, and he took inventory of his body, the pain levels, the dulled level of feedback he was getting from all quarters, the fact that he could make his toes twitch neatly but his arms and especially below his elbows everything was like burning hot coals, incoherent and impossible to approach. "That sounds about right," he said, a little strained, catching his breath. "So, again, what are my options here?" 

"Coulson," Trip said with a frown, "how about we get the rest of you healed up, and then worry about getting function back. Not gonna lie, it'll be a long process." 

"I realize that," Phil said placidly. "But I'd like to get started." 

Jemma looked to Trip, who gave a small nod. She turned back to Coulson. "Well, Fitz and I have actually been going through the Cybertek data we've acquired, seeing if we can find the most useful innovations that are actually _ethical_ to apply to people, which their existing hardware... isn't. But there are a lot of things we can use, and you know how much work Fitz has been putting into modifying his own tech to be helpful with a decrease in manual dexterity... so I'd say, first thing when your left hand comes out of the bandages, we'll get you set up with one of his helper-bots and simple tablet interfaces. It'll be a few weeks before your right arm is ready for any kind of prosthesis work, so we'll have plenty of time to discuss options and develop something that can work for you." 

So that was what they did. 

Over the next month and a half, his team were all in and out of this room. May, Trip and Skye were his hands and voices in the outside world, doing the work of salvaging what was left of SHIELD's connections and resources. Phil was given to briefly wonder if it wouldn't be better to pass on the directorship to May. She could do the job. But she was also perfectly willing to be his right hand. 

Phil quashed his laughter at the literal way that worked out now, and remembered Fury calling him his "one good eye." He supposed it was sort of a tradition for the SHIELD director to be somewhat asymmetrical, just a little broken, to remind them that they needed to use the resources available to them. 

Trip took him through his physical therapy stretches with good humor, taking on more of the work that he'd done with Fitz, more of the work that he spent three years doing before the event that had triggered his need to get closer to the action. The stories about his career path changes, and his mother's reactions to them, were some of his favorites to tell. They both steered clear of Garrett stories, although he'd been such a big part of both their lives. Even when it came to the Deathlok tech discussions, they went out of their ways to avoid mentioning the man who had spawned so much of it. 

Trip, Simmons and Fitz did a lot of hemming and hawing over the possibility of cybernetic enhancement based on that tech, but ultimately the four of them decided not to risk it, to start with a smart robotic prosthetic and see how much mileage it got them before doing anything too crazy. 

Phil was torn, truth be told, between the possibility of cybernetics returning him to normal function with not too much of a learning curve, and the shiver that ran down his back thinking about being SHIELD's guinea pig for untested medical tech again. 

* * *

Phil was taking the first fumbling steps towards using his robotic prosthetic a month later, slowly calibrating its skin sensors and the impulses in his nerves to each other, frustratingly slowly. He didn't trust his new hand to do the simplest of tasks, but that didn't stop him from working at it constantly. 

His duties as director came first, of course. And they had a doozy of a mission ahead of them. His team was good, but it was small. He had three field agents and he needed two teams, two teams trained in SHIELD protocol and who worked together like well-oiled machines. 

He decided it was time he reactivated Strike Team Delta. 

* * *

The Avengers had, of course, by now realized that someone other than them was attempting to clean up all of SHIELD's loose ends, and Barton and Romanov weren't terribly surprised to get the call, and he didn't think they were terribly surprised to see him, either, although Natasha walked out of his office almost immediately in disgust. 

"So you're alive an' well after all," Clint said in a low growl that was at once dark and amused. "Figures." 

"More or less," Coulson agreed, gesturing with his skeletal, metallic hand. 

"Huh." Barton raised his eyebrows as he sat down. "That's new. Robot rumors true?" 

"Not so much." He folded his hands on his desk, metal one inside scarred flesh one. "And it's very new. You heard about the destruction of the Treehouse?" 

"Heard that it went to shit, Hydra's self-destruct charges ended up blowing in the middle of the op. That was your team?" 

"I thought I could defuse the charges. I was overconfident." 

"Shit," Barton swore. "You okay?" 

"I'm fine," Coulson said. "But we're not here to discuss that. I need the two of you in on this next op." 

"Think my handler's condition is something I could spare another minute or two to hear about," Clint said, narrowing his eyes a little. 

"May will be coordinating this operation," Coulson said. "You've both worked with her. She'll be briefing you on the mission details. This meeting is just to welcome you back to SHIELD. As its new director, I'm not really in a position to go into the field when there's another option." 

Clint smirked. "I know you better'n that," he said. "You're itching to get back out. And honestly? May's okay. But I've always been more comfortable with you on the other end of the comm." He laughed briefly. "May an' Nat. That'll be some lively chatter." 

Phil's eyes sparkled in return. "They're both businesslike and respect radio silence, if that's what you mean. But I'm sure Trip and Skye on Team 2 will make up the difference." 

Clint sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Come on, Phil. Only reason I came, honestly, was the rumors about you. Wanted to see if they were true." 

"Well, I'm here." Phil frowned slightly. "So can we get on with business?" 

"I don't know," Clint answered. "I don't know how you are yet." 

"Why, because I'm staying behind a desk? It wouldn't be the first time, and it certainly won't be the last. I'm the Director now and I have a certain amount of value past my ability to be a field agent." 

"Right, and that's why you're not going into the field?" 

"That's why I'm not going into the field." 

"With all due respect, Sir, that's bullshit. That is not something that would for one second keep the Phil Coulson I know out of the field. You always have to be there to protect your agents." 

Phil stood abuptly, turning away. "Well, maybe I'm not the person you used to know." 

Clint let out a noisy breath. "What the hell happened to you, Phil?" 

"I died," he said. After a silent moment, he continued. "Apparently SHIELD couldn't go on without me, so some extraordinary measures were taken to bring me back to... an approximation of what I was." He took a breath. "It's led me to reevaluate myself and my place in this organization." 

"Clearly that hasn't stopped you. You were in the thick of things at the Treehouse?" 

"Yes, and look what that got me!" Phil turned back to face Clint, threw his arms out and up in a violent shrug, and the prosthetic clipped one of the displays, knocking several pieces askew and sending a model car careening to the floor. 

There was silence as they both stared down at it. 

"Fuck," Coulson said, covering his eyes with his left hand. 

"Okay," Clint said carefully, "so clearly you're not quite up to spec yet." He bit his lip. "Coulson, c'mon, you coulda just told me you're having trouble." 

"This isn't something you need to be concerned about. Just believe me when I tell you that I'm not the best person to go into the field with you anymore." 

Clint sighed. "And what if I wanna be concerned?" 

"Barton, I am fine. If I am ever not fine, I will tell you." 

"But you won't, will you, Sir? Because it is your fucking mission in life to always be the one who's _fine._ " 

"I'll admit that I can get... somewhat agitated when my limitations are made obvious. That doesn't mean I can't handle this." 

"Yeah, Coulson, you're real fine right now. You're cursing and tossin' around collectibles you'd have taken a finger for touching before." 

The thoughtless words fell into the silence like a lead weight. 

"I should never have joked about that." 

Clint shrugged. "Eh. You picked it up from Tasha, and _she'd_ have followed through on it." 

Phil very carefully did not examine his own losses in response to that. "So extremities are a little more dear to me right now than collectible miniatures," he said, looking at the dented object on his carpet. "So sue me." He kicked the thing once more, just for good measure, under the guise of turning it over with his toe to sit upright. "I have to be okay. There isn't really much of an alternative." 

Clint gave a harsh bark of laughter. "Spoken like someone who's never had to give up before." He shook his head. "Y'know something, Phil? I have taken on the impossible for you hundreds of times. Sometimes it didn't work out for anyone. But you have NEVER blamed me. Phil. You've _never_ made it feel like asking for help was something to be ashamed of. Not until now." 

Phil's face had gone pinched, and Clint regretted making that happen a little, but Phil needed to know what this looked like. 

"Am I the only one who's allowed to screw up? I get special allowances because I'm just a natural screw-up?" 

"No. Clint, you're an exemplary agent." 

"Then _what's the damn difference?_ " 

"Getting in over your head is only okay when you've got backup!" Phil gestured emphatically to his own chest. 

Clint glared right back. "And what the HELL do you think that makes ME?" 

Phil couldn't figure out how to explain that it was part of the chain of command, how the one doing the protecting, the one responsible, wasn't allowed to give less than their best or fail at doing what it took to be ready for anything. 

It wasn't until after he heard the slam of the door behind Clint that he realized maybe he couldn't explain it because it didn't make sense. 

* * *

The mission went off without a hitch, but oh, it was nerve-wracking to know Strike Team Delta was in the field without him, Skye was in the field without him. He'd forgotten how much medical leave could consist of anxious pacing. At least his legs were up to that. 

They all handed reports to him, although Skye, Trip and May sent them digitally, as they'd been accustomed to do on the Bus on the rare occasion when reports were required within the informal mobile unit. Delta handed theirs in in person, likely just as an excuse to get eyes on him where he was lurking in his office. 

Romanov graced him with an appraising look that turned into a glare. Doubtless she and Barton had been talking over their paperwork, as they tended to do. And doubtless she had decided to side with Clint, as if she wasn't one of the worst when it came to hiding and dealing with her issues alone. 

She plunked her report down on his desk and left without a word. 

Somehow he suspected that Clint would be by soon, and his visit wouldn't be as brief. 

* * *

Clint tossed his report onto the desk as he plunked down into a chair, looking at Phil expectantly. 

"Agent Barton," Coulson said. 

"That's seriously all I get?" 

"I'm sorry. I didn't intend to imply that you aren't always there when I need you to be, because you are." 

"Uh huh. And?" Clint's eyes were no less searching. 

"I understand why you want to help me, but I assure you, that's not your responsibility. Let me handle this in my own way." 

"I could maybe do that if you'd admitted from the start that there was something that needed handling. But you're pretty dead set on denying it, aint'cha?" 

"Agent Barton, it is my business how I handle this. I'm talking to you about it as a courtesy, as a friend. Please don't take advantage of that." 

"God, Phil, do you even actually know what having a friend _means_?" 

"Apparently it means I get taken advantage of." Phil was running his left thumb over the little black 'toolbox' that Skye had mentioned, so Clint was pretty sure he was thinking about Nick Fury. If the rumors about that guy were equally true, Clint was gonna kill the manipulative sonovabitch pirate captain himself, for real this time. 

"It means," Clint said emphatically, "people look out for you, whether you want them to or not." 

"I don't need anyone to look out for me, Clint," Phil said tiredly. "I've had enough of people checking up on me recently." 

"No? Not ever? So you're always okay?" 

Phil didn't answer. 

"Were you 'okay' when you went up against Loki? Were you 'okay' when you died. Have you _ever_ let yourself be less than completely pepared for a situation? Once in your life? 'Cause I'm startin' to wonder." 

Phil's voice was even as he answered the question, but his face held the unmistakeable marks of a rueful frown. "The last thing I remember telling Nick was that it was okay that I was dying. That it would help the team." 

"Because you just had to have a plan for that, didn't you? You had to be _perfect_ and never for _one second_ give anyone _any claim_ on you. You'd never admit to missing us. To wishing you had more time. Because that wouldn't be _Agent Coulson._ Flawless in 'is suit. Y'know, Sir, for once you could try _gettin' down here and crawling through the muck with the rest of us._ " 

"That's not... I don't... Clint. Please." 

Phil's eyes were wide and sorrowful, and Clint couldn't resist the tug that gave his heart. 

He shook his head. "Phil. Why are you so dead set on bein' the last one standing? I don't get it. Explain it to me." 

There was a long pause as Coulson gathered his thoughts. 

"Clint... I will do what I need to to survive. But part of that is being a reliable agent. That's not something I can lose. I wouldn't live through.... I couldn't handle losing your respect." 

Clint let out his breath in a gust. "Phil, we are way past that." 

For a moment Phil's face showed the stillness of shock, the beginning signs of devastation. 

"Do you really think you could ever lose that now? Come on, Phil, you're the best man I know." 

Phil's brain struggled to recalibrate with what he was hearing. "But you know Steve," was all he could think to say. 

"Yeah," Clint replied, breaking into a chuckle. "I know Steve. And he's a little judgmental sometimes, a little harder than he has to be, an' he loves a fight a little too much. You're better than that. You've sacrificed as much as he has, and more. You're the best person I know, Phil, you just are." 

Phil searched Clint's face, trying to see what exactly was there that he had somehow managed to completely miss all these years. 

Clint took a deep breath. "But if you want me back in SHIELD, Director, you're gonna have to be more than that. You're gonna have to let me in." 

"I'm not sure what you want from me. But I can try." 

Clint's face scrunched a little with sadness. "Phil, I grieved for you, okay? An' I'm done with that. Don't wanna get pushed away, don't wanna hear I can't help. Don't wanna waste any more time not bein' here for you 'cause you won't tell me how you are." 

"I'm sorry," Phil said, finally seeing the extent to which he'd hurt Clint. And while he'd been okay with dying, he was still working on being okay with what had been done to bring him back, and the fact that Fury had classified the results. He didn't particularly want to be the kind of director that felt those things needed to be done. "Fury is paranoid and labyrinthine and as much as I looked up to him as the director, that's not what I want to be. May is an excellent deputy director but she's almost worse these days. So yes, I'd like to try to let you help me with that." 

"Okay." Clint smiled crookedly across the desk at him. "Think I can work with that. So tell me what's been on your mind." 

Phil took a breath. "So how much have you heard about Cybertek?" 

* * *

They went over all the files, all the things the Deathlok technology had managed to accomplish, everything that made it dangerous and twisted. They went over the designs for the robotic prosthetic he was wearing, and the more direct cybernetic implant he was considering. 

"Does that thing completely freak you out the way it would completely freak out a normal person?" Clint asked, looking at the invasive positions of the nerve relays in the diagram. 

"Yes," Phil admitted. "It's eerie. This is bad enough. I forget how different it looks. I forget until I have to look at it... and then... after everything... it's hard not to feel like less than a real person." 

"So, kinda a toss-up between the two? Both freak you out, so you just need to decide which to get used to?" 

"To be honest, the cybernetics scare me a lot more. What Cybertek did to Akela, to Michael Peterson, everything Garrett did to himself... there are a lot of images I'd rather forget that that would remind me of. And I'm already worried about what Fury had done to me to bring me back, and whether I'm going to wake up one day and just be something _other_ than the Phil Coulson that you knew from before." 

Phil's shaking was at a level where it would have been imperceptible, except that the rigidity of his prosthetic hand magnified the motion. Clint reached across the desk and cradled both of Phil's hands in his own, just as if one of them wasn't cold, dead-looking metal. 

"Hey," he said. "Hey. This is not a thing you have to do. Yeah, I'm sure the science twins are excited to see if it works, but it's also creepy as all get out, and they wouldn't want to test it on you if you're not comfortable with it. So chill, okay? Take a breath." 

Phil did, and he felt better momentarily, but then all the reasons he'd thought of for having the cybernetics implanted came flooding back. "I want it, maybe as much as it scares me." 

"Okay, so you've got some thinking to do. But don't do this for SHIELD. You've given SHIELD enough, Phil." 

"There's no such thing as enough. This is about saving the world, protecting people." 

Clint scoffed. "Protect yourself for once. You don't need to be everything you're trying to be. You gotta let some of this go." 

"I am not giving up!" The yell was like a whip crack, and it echoed in the small room. 

"Never said you were." 

"I am not surrendering any part of who I was to this injury." His voice was quieter, more restrained now, but still fierce. "I have put too much work into SHIELD, into my training and I refuse to be anything less than a competent agent." He glared at Clint. 

"Good," was all Clint said. 

"But... I can't be that without my dexterity back to the way it was. Without the cybernetic tech." 

"Don't believe you. Agent Coulson works with what he has, an' yeah, I know you like the fancy gadgets, but you never really need 'em to be kickass." 

Phil sighed quietly. "That might be true, but before... I've always at least had hands." 

"What about that one time when you fought that arms dealer with one arm tied behind your back?" 

"I cheated, if you'll recall, by holding a machete in that hand and twisting sideways at the right moment." 

"So, you'll find other ways to cheat." Clint watched Phil, straining to see whether he was getting through to him. The archer was a little shocked when he actually saw tears forming in Phil's eyes. "What?" he asked quietly. 

"Clint, I can't sign," he said in a strained whisper. "I still can't move the last two fingers on my left hand very well, and you know my form with that hand was never all that great to begin with. I really... don't want to lose that." 

Clint frowned, squeezing Phil's left hand slightly where it lay on the desk. "Huh. ASL? Seriously, how many agents have you ever worked with where that's even a thing you might need? And how many do you have now?" 

"Just you," Phil answered, but neither his tone nor his expression gave any hint that that had lessened his distress. 

"Just me. An' youre thinkin' about living with something out of your nightmares permanently attached to your arm, just to keep that?" 

Phil laughed slightly wetly. "It shouldn't be a hard decision, should it? But there have been so many times when it was the easiest, quickest way to communicate with you, and what if some day that makes the difference between you coming back safe and not? It wouldn't feel right going into the field with you, not without that." 

Clint's thumb ran across the fingers of Phil's left hand as he absorbed that. "If it makes a difference, I still trust you to have my back. But now that I know why, I'm happy to have May as a regular handler if that makes you feel better. Okay? Don't do this to yourself on my account." 

Phil smiled crookedly, looking down at their hands. "I had no idea that that was such a big part of this for me. I really didn't expect this." He used his metal hand to gesture vaguely in the direction of his face, where tears were rolling their way down now. "But I guess that's the thing that gets to me the most. Not having the same accuracy with a gun is one thing. But not being able to talk to my agents? That's... unthinkable. And I had no idea." 

Clint made a contemplative noise, and then he said, "The thing about shock is you can't tell how badly you're hurt." 

"I know that. Pretty sure I'm past that point, though." 

"Or maybe not." Clint shook his head at Phil's raised eyebrow. "I know it's a whole medical thing, I'm not talking about that. It's a regular people thing, too. After I lost my hearing? Didn't hit me for a long time. Hard to know how to fix it when you can't see the whole problem." 

Phil nodded thoughtfully. They sat in silence for a moment before Phil said, "So now that I know how badly I'm hurt, what do I do about it?" 

"Fuck if I know," Clint replied. "I'm not actually that great an example of coping. Pretty much just good for digging up as much trouble as possible." 

Phil laughed, but he also held tight to Clint's hand. "I have a feeling that you're going to be a lot more helpful than you might think." 

Clint shrugged. "I always hope things work out better than I think they will. This is lookin' pretty good so far. You look happier." 

Phil continued to chuckle as he raised his right arm to wipe the tears away with his shirt sleeve. "Really?" 

Clint grinned. "Yeah. Messy, but... yeah." 

Phil groaned slightly. "Speaking of messy. I am still the director of this organization and there are things that I should be doing." But he didn't pull away from Clint's hand. 

"Anything I can help with? Since I'm being your backup here. Just... don't ask me to alphabetize anything." 

Phil smiled wryly and shook his head. "No, we've actually got a minimum of paperwork still... well, at least in terms of things that are actually on paper. Computers alphabetize everything automatically." 

"I'll keep that in mind for next time. So what SHIELD business am I keeping you from?" 

Phil looked slightly sheepish. "Not so much SHIELD business as... the tasks necessary for me to maintain a professional demeanor." 

Clint's eyes widened just slightly. "Huh. Never thought you'd have trouble looking put together. But I guess it makes sense." 

"I'm perfectly capable of showering and dressing with one hand. I've done it before. After Singapore, when I broke my wrist." He looked at Clint with an expression so bland it almost came back around to defiant. "I'll never have that _particular_ problem again, but the basic concept still applies." 

Clint chuckled. "Oh, yeah, you were so noisy about it after Singapore, though. Didn't exactly keep it a secret you hated being injured, not being quite as quick about everything as usual." He sighed. "So what's changed, Phil?" 

"This isn't temporary," Phil answered, forcing out the words. "This is how things are now. If I hate this, that means I hate my life. So I can't." 

"Never stopped anybody else," Clint murmured in response. 

That got just a hint of a rueful, understanding smile out of Phil. 

"Well, if you need any help, let me know," Clint said. 

Phil looked at him searchingly. "I'm having a hard time figuring out whether you're serious right now. Playing therapist for a friend is one thing, and that is another. Plus, well, at least with the shower, that's one of the cases where my lack of ability to sign might get in the way." 

Clint smiled and tapped his earpiece. "Stark tech. Waterproof." 

"You're serious, aren't you?" 

"Yeah, I am." 

Phil blew out a breath. "I suppose I could use an extra hand." 

Clint stood and held out a hand to help Phil up. "Happy to provide," he said. 

* * *

It was only a little awkward, actually. They'd done all this before, sort of. They'd treated each other's injuries, there'd been times when they'd changed or taken decontamination showers in the same small space. But with the _combination_ of nakedness and touch... it was a little awkward. 

Phil washed his hair and face, and Clint helped him scrub his back and shoulders, then handed him the loofah so he could continue. Clint offered an arm for balance, but averted his eyes, trying not to blush too hard at the feel of Phil's wet skin against his and the thought of what he might see if he looked down. 

"Well, one of us is going to have to look at it," Phil said, sounding almost like he would if he were about to walk into peril. Confused, Clint chanced to look at his face. His jaw was set and his eyes looked resolutely left, and not at the arm whose shoulder Clint was supporting. 

"Oh," Clint said in realization. "No, that's not what I was... you want me to wash your arm for you?" 

Phil nodded. "That would be... helpful, actually." 

Clint got a bit of shower gel out and lathered up his hands, then he started in, gently, carefully, above the elbow, about where he'd left off scrubbing Phil's shoulders before. "You'll tell me if I'm hurting you, right?" he asked. 

"It's healed now, you don't have to worry," Phil began, "but it does get its sore spots. From the prosthetic." 

Clint nodded, and let his fingers explore, finding where the muscles were knotted from Phil's workaholic nature, where the skin was indented from the prosthetic's harness and sensors, where scar tissue had closed up the wound that his hand and wrist had left behind. He cleaned every inch of the abused skin with his fingertips, reverently and tenderly. 

"It doesn't bother you?" Phil asked, watching Clint's face. 

"It's not like it's gross." Clint shrugged. "It's you. It's healed. Better this than cleaning that gash you got when we raided that weird underground compound in Idaho." His fingers didn't stop moving, now massaging gently where the knots were worst. 

Phil's eyes narrowed contemplatively as he looked at Clint. "This is more than friendship to you, isn't it?" His tone wasn't one of accusation, just simple curiosity. 

"Doesn't have to be," Clint answered, but he'd gone a little more red than the steam could account for. 

"Clint." He lifted his hand to lay it against Clint's cheek. "I've always been very careful to be completely professional in my behavior towards you. But I think we're a little past that now, aren't we?" 

Clint chuckled, seeming startled that Phil was willing to acknowledge it. "Huh. What tipped you off?" 

Phil moved first, but Clint did not hesitate to follow, and so in a blink they were kissing, soft but urgent, mouths wet and sliding against each other and bodies so close and so accustomed to each other's motions that the acceleration was seamless, so that Clint sucking on Phil's tongue segued naturally and easily into Clint's arms bracketing Phil and holding him against the shower wall, their hips undulating together smooth and easy. Apparently they'd both been half-hard, although neither had been ready to admit it until now. 

Phil whined breathlessly as Clint pressed against him, the fingers of his left hand digging into one muscular shoulder. Then he leaned in to taste the skin of Clint's neck, to learn it as he never had before, with his teeth and tongue. Clint groaned, low and satisfied, and rolled his hips again, the water and the trust between them making everything so easy. 

"Ah, Phil, you're amazing," Clint gasped. "Wanted this for ages." Phil's hand was busy, so Clint wrapped both of them in his own wet, calloused fingers, and they both sighed, long and ragged, into the feel of that. 

"Clint. Clint, Clint," seemed to be all Phil could say for a while after that, burying his face in Clint's neck and already starting to shake apart, because of the stress, because of the fear, because of how long it had been and everything that had happened on the road to get here. He was safe, and he could let himself go, let himself fall apart. 

It wasn't long, because more than anything else they needed it to be easy, needed it to be comfortable. Clint's fingers found all the best places, pulled in just the right rhythms to have them panting hard and kissing messily and almost sobbing with the rightness of it. Phil came first, with a long, drawn-out, almost wounded groan, and Clint kept it going for a few moments longer, still squeezing and rocking, then thumbing the head of his own cock almost roughly and sighing a long incoherent syllable as he gave himself over to the wave of hot pleasure. 

They panted and held on to each other, and warm water washed over them in a still-constant stream, and after a moment Clint grinned, wide and wild and in awe. Phil returned the smile, soft and content, and after a moment they went about getting clean again, Clint helping Phil significantly more thoroughly than before, and less self-consciously. Then they climbed out and dried off, Clint taking care to keep things easy for Phil, wanting to keep him this boneless and relaxed for absolutely as long as possible. And they kissed, leisurely and weirdly already so familiar, as they got into their clothes. 

* * *

When Nat spotted them they were in the lounge area of the Playground, in t-shirts and sweatpants, hair damp, heads together as they whispered about something or other, Clint's careful fingers playing over the skin of Phil's stump, Phil's left hand flicking into a clumsy attempt at a sign now and again. They looked comfortable. 

"Glad you've finally admitted you're alive," she told Phil, sliding into a chair near their sofa. 

He looked up and gave her a warm smile. "Me too," he said. 

Her smile answered his, and she settled deeper into the chair, bringing her eyes down to her book. 


End file.
